


Squire, Yours

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, Light Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 04:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19985785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: “Is that what you think about, your grace?”Olyvar Frey is a dutiful squire, and gives his king what he needs.





	Squire, Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a asoiaf rarepair prompt, asking for Robb/Olyvar Frey (there were more details to it than that, but copy&paste isn't working and the prompt is just too long to write out myself, sorry prompter!).

King Robb is quiet tonight, musing over a cup of wine. He's not usually the type to drink, but the war weighs heavy atop him. Olyvar watches the way his he slouches over the table, elbows digging into the wood. “Your grace,” he says, “do you need–?”

“I'm fine,” Robb answers, his eyes worn and tired. He gives Olyvar a small smile. “Come, sit with me.”

Olyvar isn't sure if he should, tries to remember what his father told him a proper squire ought to do, but he can hardly refuse a direct order, can he? “Of course, your grace,” he answers with a nod of hid head, but when he takes the seat opposite, he sees something pained in his king's eyes.

“...You're older than me, aren't you?” Robb asks, and Olyvar is embarrassed by the question.

“Barely,” he mutters, sneaking a glance at his king's face. He is young, but you'd never know it with that beard upon his face.

Robb seems uneasy. “Forgive me. I didn't mean anything by that.” Olyvar didn't think so. He's heard men about camp whisper and giggle at the Frey, a squire old enough to be his liege's father – he's only eight and ten, for the gods' sakes – but Robb would not, he's sure. “It's only... I just...”

He trails off. Olyvar cocks his head to the side curiously. “You just what, your grace?”

“Nothing.” He can just about see a faint blush beneath that auburn fur. “I'm sorry.” He takes another sip hurriedly.

Olyvar should leave that at that, but perhaps the Twins has left some mark upon him after all. “You aren't just asking me about girls, are you?” he says with a laugh. He knows Robb was close with the Ironborn lad, after all. “That's what most boys ask about.”

Robb's blush deepens. “No, I'm not.” Olyvar feels embarrassed again. He shouldn't have said that; does he want his liege to think there's something wrong with him? He's a Frey, is that not bad enough? “...Do they ask about anything else?”

The words are blurted out, and Olyvar is taken aback. Robb sounds much younger when he asks that. “Like what?” Robb avoids his eye, does not answer, but slowly, Olyvar pieces together what he might mean. “...Men?”

Robb takes a sharp, sudden breath, and he is no longer a king. Just a boy of six and ten, about to panic. “It's alright,” Olyvar insists, remembering he is not much older. “I mean, they do. It's very common actually.” He's had more than one encounter with the serving boys. The Twins has never been a place to keep to the laws of gods and men very closely, and there are too many bastards about there anyway. “Is that what you think about, your grace?”

His king's body slumps with defeat. “I don't mean to,” he whispers. “I know I am the king. I know I have to marry your family, sire an heir. But I want – god, the things I want–”

“It's alright.” Olyvar reaches across the table and squeezes Robb's hand. It's a brazen move, one he knows no squire should dare, but somehow he knows Robb won't punish him for it. “...I could show you, if you like.” And Robb finally meets his eye, stunned. “I am your man, after all. Is it not my duty to give you what you require, your grace?”

Robb hesitates a moment, and then squeezes his hand in return. “Please,” he chokes, “call me Robb.”

* * *

He takes his king's maidenhead on the rough straw bed of the battlefield, thick thighs wrapped around his waist and holding him tight. Robb's eyes are shut through most of it, like he can't really believe this is happening, but he claws and scratches at Olyvar's back to urge him on. _The young wolf indeed._

“Please,” Robb moans, and Olyvar presses soft kisses along his stubbled jaw, perhaps not sure he can believe it either. He loves his king, he has always loved his king. He wants to show him that.

He finds his hand around Robb's cock and leaves him spasming and writhing; he can't help but grin in pride. He's never been too good with a sword, but apparently he's good with _Robb's_ sword. Robb yanks his legs apart and whimpers beneath him. “Oh gods, _please_.”

Olyvar could easily make him finish just like this, but he gathers that's not what Robb wants from him. “Are you sure?” he asks, and just barely bites back the _your grace_ ready to fall from his lips. Whatever Robb asks of him, it still seems like a debasement, a defilement, a dishonour, to take his king the way he would a woman.

Robb simply whimpers to tell him otherwise. “I need it,” he begs. “Or do I have to order you?”

There is oil for the saddles and the sheaths nearby, that helps. Olyvar slicks himself up and then plunges deep between Robb's cheeks – he is tight, hot, and totally untouched. He moans. “Oh gods, Robb.”

Robb cannot even manage that much, mouth hanging open in bliss, keening his hips to invite Olyvar in further. He feels not one lick of pain. Olyvar dives as far into his inviting hole as he dares, and listens to Robb gasp and plead for it all the while. Robb moans so loud he has to press a hand over his mouth to shush him. He knows the Northerners would not want to hear this of his king.

Neither of them lasts long, two young men, Robb skewering himself on Olyvar's cock and Olyvar, utterly rapt in his king's body. “Robb, Robb,” he moans in Robb's mouth, kissing him before he comes, and Robb follows obligingly, seed spread across Olyvar's body. For a moment, Olyvar wishes he were the Frey to give Robb his heir, that his seed could spring into something in his king's belly.

Once they're done, Robb starts to tremble underneath him. “Thank you, my lord,” he says, and kisses below Olyvar's ear. “I needed that. Most men would not have...”

Olyvar shakes his head, and kisses him properly. “Nonsense. I will do all you ask of me,” he says. “I am your man, until one of us dies.”


End file.
